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Storia MidReal
Love Strangely: A Handful of Heartbreak
Scenario:I fell in Love with my right hand and I didnt want anyone or anything else but my right hand.....Together with my Left, we'd be happy for the Lifetime.
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Michael Jennings
in love with his right hand, no direct relationships, tall with dark hair, introspective and humorous.
Daniel Harper
therapist trying to help Michael move on, professional relationship with Michael, wears glasses and is always wellgroomed, analytical and patient.
Samantha Wright
best friend and confidante, friends with Michael, short and curly blonde hair, supportive and caring.
Chapter 1
I love my right hand.
There, I said it.
It’s out there in the universe now, and I can’t take it back.
The words are like a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode and ruin my life at any moment.
But I had to say them.
I had no choice.
Because the truth is always better than a lie, even when the truth is so fucking embarrassing that you want to die on the spot rather than admit it out loud.
And so here I am, sitting in front of my computer screen with my head in my hands, trying to ignore the fact that the entire world is laughing at me.
It’s not just a body part to me.
It’s so much more than that.
It’s my life, my everything, and I can’t live without it.
The media has had a field day with this story, of course.
They’ve labeled me the "Lover of His Own Hand" and have spent countless hours speculating about why I would make such a claim.
Most people think I’m joking or that I’m mentally ill in some way; others think I’m doing it for attention, which is probably true on some level, although not for the reasons they assume.
The truth is that I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about me or my feelings for my right hand.
I know the truth, and that’s all that matters.
And the truth is that I love my right hand more than anything else in this world except maybe Samantha Wright, who is my best friend and the only person who knows about my secret obsession.
She’s the one who convinced me to go to therapy and try to get help for my "problem," as she calls it, even though I was perfectly happy living with it just the way things were.
She didn’t understand how much it hurt me when people called me a freak or made jokes about me being in love with myself.
I would lie awake at night wondering why I was cursed with such an unnatural passion and wishing I could find a way to make it go away.
But I knew that no matter how hard I tried, nothing would ever change the way I felt about my right hand.
And so here I am now, sitting in front of my computer screen with my head in my hands and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I think about all the people who are laughing at me and calling me a freak.
Because they’re right, aren’t they?
No one but a freak would be in love with their own body part.
And no one but a selfish bastard would be willing to ruin his life to follow his heart instead of doing what everyone else thinks he should do.
I shrugged and took another sip of beer.
"I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just sitting here minding my own business."
"You’re drinking yourself into oblivion," she said.
"That’s not healthy."
I laughed bitterly.
"And you’re the expert on healthy living? Please. You can barely take care of yourself, much less anyone else."
She let out a frustrated sigh, running her fingers through her short and curly blonde hair.
"Why do you have to be so stubborn? Can’t you see how much damage you’re doing to yourself? What about all the people who care about you?"
"Who cares about me?"
I asked.
"I’ve been alone for as long as I can remember. No one gives a shit about me except maybe you. And even you don’t seem to care very much anymore."
"That’s not fair," she said, frowning at me.
"I care about you more than anyone else in this world. But I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself like this. It breaks my heart." "Then don’t watch," I said coldly.
"Just leave me alone and let me drink myself to death already. It’s not like anyone would miss me if I were gone." "That’s not true," she said quietly.
"Yes it is," I said.
"You know it as well as I do. I was a mess before we met and nothing’s changed since then. The only difference is that now I have someone to talk to. But talking doesn’t help. Talking doesn’t change anything."
"Talking can change everything if you let it. You just have to give it a chance. Please, Michael. I hate seeing you like this. You’re not the same person you used to be." "And whose fault is that?" I asked.
"It wasn’t my idea for them to send me halfway across the country so that I could start over in some strange city where I knew absolutely no one."
"You could have made friends," she pointed out.
"Friends. Because making friends is so easy when you’re a socially awkward introvert like me. Besides, who needs friends when I have my right hand? It’s always been there for me. It’s never let me down or betrayed me the way people do. It’s the only thing in this world that I can truly count on." "That’s not true," she whispered.
"You can count on me too."
I turned to look at her and met her sad blue eyes.
"I know," I said.
"And that means more to me than you’ll ever know."
"Then why won’t you let me help you?"
she asked.
"I am trying to help," she insisted.
"But I can’t do it alone. You need someone who knows what they’re doing. You need professional help."
I shook my head stubbornly and took another sip of beer.
"I don’t need a shrink," I mumbled.
I struggled to find the right words, to describe how much my right hand meant to me, but they continued to elude me.
Dr. Harper sat across from me, his brown eyes focused on my face as he listened in silence.
I’d been seeing him for a little over a week now and had yet to make any progress.
I’d hoped that with each session, it would get easier for me to talk about this, but the opposite seemed to be true.
As time went by, the idea of discussing my feelings only became more daunting.
Part of me wanted to tell him what he wanted to hear just so that he would stop asking questions, but I knew that wouldn’t help me in the long term.
If I was going to get better—if there was such a thing—I needed to be honest with him.
The problem was, how could I possibly put into words what my right hand meant to me?
How could I explain something that defied all logic?
How could anyone understand what it was like to fall in love with your own body part?
It sounded ridiculous when said out loud—downright absurd—but there was no denying that it had happened.
That it was real.
And as much as I wanted it gone, as much as I wished things were different, there was nothing that anyone could do or say to change how I felt.
My relationship with my right hand had been ten years in the making.
It hadn’t happened overnight, like some sort of bizarre epiphany.
It had taken time for my feelings to develop, for the bond between us to strengthen.
And it wasn’t as if I’d set out with the intention of falling in love with it.
It wasn’t a choice I’d made, but rather a consequence of circumstance.
When I’d been at my lowest point—depressed, lonely, and desperate for some sort of connection—it had been there for me.
And even though I knew on some level that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t an actual person I was talking to or holding onto, it felt real enough.
And maybe that was the whole point.
Maybe I’d been so starved for affection and companionship that my mind had created this elaborate fantasy in order to cope.
Or maybe it was just easier for me to pretend that I was in love with my right hand than to face the idea of being alone forever.
It certainly beat having my heart broken again. "What if I told you that you were missing out on something even better?" Dr. Harper said, interrupting my train of thought.
"What if I told you that there’s more to life than being alone? That there are people out there who can make you happy in ways you never thought possible?"
Chapter 2
I stared back at him in silence.
His office was small—a comfortable space designed to put his patients at ease.
The walls were painted a soothing shade of blue, and there were several paintings hanging up to add a touch of color.
On the far wall, there was a bookshelf filled with textbooks and various knickknacks.
The blinds had been drawn open, allowing sunlight to stream in through the window and bathe the room in a warm golden glow.
Dr. Harper himself looked perfectly put together as always.
Not a hair was out of place on his head, and his glasses were spotless.
He wore a grey suit jacket over a crisp white shirt and black slacks.
He looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ magazine rather than sitting behind a desk in some small office in the middle of New York City.
But despite his good looks and impeccable sense of style, it was his intelligence that truly stood out.
As soon as he opened his mouth, it became clear just how smart he really was.
The man could quote obscure studies from memory and analyze even the most complex subjects with ease.
He was brilliant—I had no doubt about that—and I couldn't help but feel intimidated by him at times.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete nutcase.
It wasn't easy trying to explain my feelings for my right hand to another person—especially when I didn't fully understand them myself.
If I couldn't make sense of it all, how could he possibly hope to?
"Yes," I said finally.
"I've thought about it, but…"
I trailed off, unsure of what to say next.
"But what?" he prompted.
"Can you tell me?"
"I just… I don't see how a relationship with someone else could be better than the one I have with my right hand," I admitted quietly.
Dr. Harper raised an eyebrow, giving me a pointed look.
"You can't be serious."
"I am," I insisted, meeting his gaze head-on.
"My right hand is the best thing that's ever happened to me. It's always been there for me, when no one else was. It knows me better than anyone."
"And yet it is still just a hand," Dr. Harper pointed out.
"You're afraid of being hurt," Dr. Harper said bluntly.
"So you've chosen to settle for something safe rather than taking a chance on finding something truly meaningful."
"That's not what I'm saying," I protested.
"It's just that…"
What was I trying to say, exactly?
I wasn't even sure myself.
"Think about it," he said.
"If you continue down this path, you’ll never find true happiness. You owe it to yourself to take that leap of faith. You never know—you might just be surprised by what—or who—you find on the other side."
"I think you’re oversimplifying things," I told him.
"No one is going to understand me the way Ms. Right Hand does." "You'll never know until you try," he replied calmly.
"Are you really so willing to give up on something that could bring so much joy and meaning into your life?"
When he put it like that, it was hard to argue with him.
But deep down, I knew the truth—I was scared shitless of getting close to another person again.
It was easier for me to have shallow relationships with people than risk putting my heart on the line and getting hurt all over again.
And if I couldn't have real love, then physical pleasure was the next best thing.
I was quiet for a long time, mulling over his words.
He was right, of course.
But that didn't mean that I had to like it.
In an ideal world, I would have both emotional and physical satisfaction—but life wasn't always fair, was it?
"Tell me something," he said after a while.
"If things don't work out between you and your right hand… what do you think you'll do?"
I shrugged.
"I suppose I'll just find someone else. It's not like there's a shortage of women out there."
"That might be true," he said.
"But how long do you really think that will last? Sooner or later, people are going to get tired of having meaningless flings and one-night stands. And when that happens, what will you do then?"
I looked at him in surprise.
"What makes you think that will happen?"
"Because it always does," he replied simply.
"Eventually, everyone gets tired of being alone. It's only natural for us to want someone to share our lives with."
"That might be true for some people," I said slowly.
"But there are plenty of others who are perfectly content to be on their own. Not everyone is cut out for a relationship." "You're right. Not everyone is," he agreed.
"But I'm not sure that applies to you."
"Why is that?" "Because you wouldn't be here if it did."
There was no arguing with that logic.
I had sought out Dr. Harper because I wanted to change—and deep down, I knew he was right about me too.
"I want you to think about what I've said," he continued.
I stared at him, my mind whirling with conflicting emotions.
Dr. Harper was right—I'd spent so long walling myself off from the world that I didn't even know what I was missing anymore.
And now that Samantha was gone, there was nothing to distract me from the truth.
He was right about my emotional detachment as well.
I'd been on autopilot for years, going through the motions without ever really letting anyone in.
It wasn't like I hadn't tried to have relationships before—it was just that every time I did, something went wrong.
And after enough heartbreaks, you started to wonder if it was worth getting attached to someone in the first place.
I still remembered the last time I'd truly been in love.
It had been during my junior year of college, and she'd been everything I'd ever wanted in a partner.
And then, one day out of the blue, she'd broken up with me.
Looking back, I knew that it had been my fault.
I'd been too possessive, too insecure, and she had finally gotten fed up with me.
But at the time, all I'd felt was anger and betrayal.
And once we were done, I hadn't been able to bring myself to try again with anyone else.
So instead, I'd turned into a one-man wrecking crew, using women for sex without ever letting them get close to me.
Easier said than done, but it was better than going through another heartbreak.
"So what do you think?" he asked after a while.
"Do you think you're ready to start letting people in? To give them a chance?"
I thought about it for a long time before answering.
"No," I admitted at last.
"But that doesn't mean that I shouldn't try."
Dr. Harper smiled at me encouragingly.
"I think that's a good attitude to have," he said.
"Here's something else to consider: Maybe the reason your past relationships haven't worked out is because you were expecting too much from your partners. You seem to have this idealized image of what love should be like, but the truth is that nobody is perfect. If you keep waiting for the 'right' person to come along, you might end up waiting forever."
His words hit me like a ton of bricks.
He was right—I had been looking for an excuse not to bother with relationships, and my high standards were as good as any other.
But what was wrong with giving someone a chance?
Just because they weren't perfect didn't mean they weren't worth getting to know.
And who knew?
Maybe if I gave them an opportunity, they could surprise me by turning out to be even better than I'd expected.
"I'll try."
Chapter 3
I don't know if I can do it on my own.
"I think the answer to that should be obvious by now," Daniel says, tilting his head slightly as he looks at me.
"The only way for you to truly start overcoming your fears is by allowing yourself to trust someone enough to let them in. Your friend Samantha has been urging you to see a therapist for years, but you've always refused. What changed?"
"I… I don't know," I say, frowning slightly as I try to remember.
"Samantha and I had a long talk last night, and she finally convinced me that maybe there's something wrong with me that needs fixing. And she's right—there's no way I'm going to be able to have a real relationship with anyone until I've started dealing with my issues." "So why didn't you seek therapy before? You're clearly aware of your problem, and you obviously want to change. What made you wait so long?"
"Because… because I was scared," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I was afraid that once I started working on myself, things would get worse instead of better. That maybe therapy wouldn't help me at all, and that nothing would ever be able to take away the pain and emptiness inside me."
"But then what do you want?" he asks gently.
"Is that what you really want? To keep living like this forever?"
I shake my head, tears welling up in my eyes.
"No," I say, my voice breaking.
"I want… I want things to be different. I don't want to keep living like this."
"Then maybe it's time for you to start doing something about it," he says, his eyes boring into mine as if trying to read my thoughts.
"I know you said that you were afraid of getting hurt, but maybe the right person could help you overcome your fears. Maybe the right woman could make you see that not everyone is out there to break your heart." "But what if she doesn't want me?" I ask, my voice still trembling.
"What if she takes one look at me and decides that I'm not worth the effort? That I'm too broken to be fixed?"
He smiles at me gently, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"Do you think that's true?"
I don't answer him directly, instead choosing to stare down at my hands for a long moment before speaking again.
"I think I've been looking for an excuse not to change," I say quietly, my heart pounding in my chest as I speak the words out loud for the first time.
"I've spent so long living in my own little bubble, wrapped up in myself and my own problems. I was so afraid of getting hurt that I pushed everyone away, even though deep down all I wanted was someone to love me."
He nods, as if he understands what I'm saying all too well.
"And do you think you can keep living like this forever? Do you really believe that no one will ever be able to break through your defenses?"
I shake my head, unable to form a response.
"Then maybe it's time for you to start letting people in," he says softly, his words like a soothing balm on my wounded soul.
"You told me yourself that you don't want to keep living like this. So what are you waiting for? What's stopping you from taking the first step?"
"But it's not just about sex," I protest weakly.
He frowns, as if he's not quite sure what to say next.
"Is that it?" he asks after a long moment, his eyes still fixed on me intently.
"Are you really so afraid of getting hurt that you're willing to spend the rest of your life alone?"
I shake my head, tears welling up in my eyes as I try to explain myself.
"I just… I don't know if I can ever change. I'm not sure if I'm capable of being happy… or if anyone could ever make me truly happy." "Why not?" he asks, his face unreadable as he studies me carefully.
"Why do you think you're so unlovable? Why do you think that no one would ever be able to make you happy?"
I shrug, unable to come up with a response that makes any sense at all.
"I just don't know," I say at last.
"It's not like there's anything wrong with me. I'm a decent-looking guy, and I'm reasonably smart. Most of the women I've met over the years have been attracted to me, at least physically. But no matter how hard I try, things always seem to fall apart before they even get started. Maybe it's just bad luck… or maybe there's something wrong with me that makes people want to run the other way."
He frowns again, as if he's not quite sure what to think about what I've just said.
"Maybe," he says after a long moment. "Or maybe you're just not willing to take a chance. You told me that you were afraid of getting hurt, but maybe what you're really afraid of is being happy."
"What do you mean?"
I ask him, trying not to sound defensive even though his words strike a nerve.
"Why would anyone be afraid of being happy?"
He shrugs, as if the answer should be obvious to anyone who's paying attention.
"Sometimes people get so wrapped up in their own misery that they can't imagine things being any other way," he says simply, his eyes never leaving mine.
"They tell themselves that they want to be happy, but deep down they know that it's never going to happen. They tell themselves that things will be different once they find the right person, but then they run the other way before they even give them a chance. Maybe you're one of those people who's gotten so used to being unhappy that you can't even imagine what it would be like to feel truly fulfilled." "I've been thinking about what you said," I tell him after a long pause, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to work up the courage to speak again. "And I think you might be right. Maybe I am afraid of being happy… or maybe I'm just too stubborn for my own good."
He smiles at me gently, as if he's been waiting for this moment all along.
"Maybe," he says simply. "But I think there's more to it than that."
I ask him warily, still not entirely sure where he's going with this line of questioning.
I can't help but feel a sense of despair as I ask him this question, as if the weight of the world is bearing down on my shoulders and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
He frowns again, as if he's disappointed by my reaction.
"Are you saying that you don't think you're capable of forming an emotional connection with another person?"
he asks me gently.
"I don't know," I tell him, shaking my head slowly from side to side.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
"Maybe you're looking at this the wrong way," he says after a long pause, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Maybe you're not incapable of forming an emotional connection with another person… maybe you just don't want to."
"What makes you say that?"
"I've been doing some thinking about our last session," he tells me, folding his hands in his lap as he leans back in his chair.
"I'm starting to wonder if maybe the reason you've never been able to find happiness is because you don't want to be happy," he says simply.
"That's ridiculous," I say, even though some part of me knows that he's right.
"Why would anyone want to feel miserable all the time?"
He shrugs again, as if the answer should be obvious.
"I don't know," he says after another long pause.
"But maybe that's what makes you comfortable. You told me that you'd never been in therapy before, even though many people have suggested it over the years. Why do you think that is?"
I sigh heavily, knowing that we've reached an impasse here and there's no way for me to avoid answering his question now.
"I guess I was afraid that therapy wouldn't work and I didn't see any point in wasting my time on something that would make things worse."
"Have you been happy with the way things have turned out so far?" he asks me gently.
"Has your current approach to life made you feel fulfilled and content?"
I frown at him, not sure where he's going with this line of questioning.
"Not exactly," I tell him.
"But I don't see how therapy could help… or why it would make a difference."
"I'm not saying that therapy is the answer," he says simply.
"I don't know if it will help either. But what you're doing right now clearly isn't working for you… so maybe it's time to try something different."
"I guess so," I tell him reluctantly.
Even though I don't really believe that anything can change, some part of me knows that he's right.
"You guess?"
"Either you're going to make an effort to find someone who makes you truly happy, or you're going to continue down the path you've been on… and we both know how that's going to turn out." "Can you imagine what a fulfilling relationship would be like for you?" he asks gently.
"What would it look like?"
"I don't know," I say, frowning at him over the rim of my coffee cup.
"Maybe we should talk about something else."
"You haven't answered my question," he insists.
"I don't know what else to say," I tell him honestly.
"What do you want me to do? Make something up?"
He shrugs, his expression impassive as always.
Chapter 4
Dr. Harper leans back in his chair, giving me a moment to gather my thoughts.
"Michael," he begins softly, "I think you do know what you want, but you're afraid to admit it. You fear that acknowledging your desire for a genuine connection will make you vulnerable."
I stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in.
Could it be that simple?
Is my fear of vulnerability the root of all this?
"I just don't want to get hurt again," I confess, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dr. Harper nods, his eyes filled with understanding.
"No one wants to get hurt, Michael. But avoiding pain also means avoiding life. Real connections come with risks. But they also bring joy, fulfillment, and growth."
His words strike a chord within me.
For so long, I've been living in a self-imposed fortress of solitude, convinced that it was safer than facing the uncertainties of human relationships.
"What should I do?" I ask, feeling a mix of apprehension and hope.
"Take small steps," Dr. Harper advises. "Start by reconnecting with people you trust. Open up about your feelings and listen to theirs. Build those bridges slowly but steadily."
I nod slowly, absorbing his advice.
It won't be easy; breaking down walls that have been fortified over years never is.
But for once, I feel a glimmer of hope—a belief that change is possible if I'm willing to work for it.
As the session ends and I step out into the bustling streets of New York City, I feel a strange sense of liberation.
Maybe it's the realization that I'm not alone in my struggles or the acknowledgment that taking the first step towards change is already an act of courage.
I decide to call Samantha, my best friend who has stood by me despite everything.
As her phone rings, I take a deep breath and resolve to share my journey with her—to let her in on my fears and hopes.
When she answers, her voice filled with warmth and concern, I realize that this is just the beginning of a long road ahead.
But it's a road I'm finally ready to walk down—not alone—but with others by my side.
For the first time in years, I feel something akin to optimism blooming within me—a belief that perhaps happiness isn't as unattainable as I'd always thought.
And as I start this new chapter of my life, I'm determined to find out what true connection feels like—one step at a time.
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